What has once been seen
by sherlockfanboy
Summary: It was so very rare to see Sherlock actually using his bedroom for its intended purpose however that it was a little surprising to find him actually asleep on top of his bed. Although that wasn't what caused John to stop in tracks.
1. Chapter 1

John let out a deep, slightly frustrated, sigh as he stared down once more at the screen of the mobile phone in his hand, which he then shoved in his coat pocket and exchanged for the key to 221 Baker Street.

That was the fifth text he'd received from Lestrade in the past hour alone. Usually it was Sherlock who was pestering him with texts when he was out, although his tended to be more random or demanding. Lestrade kept texting him to ask why Sherlock wasn't replying to his texts or calls, like John was some kind of personal bloody secretary. Most Yarders would probably say he was, constantly running after Sherlock like he did.

Closing the door behind him and starting up the stairs to their flat John noticed how peculiarly quiet it was in the building right now. He knew Mrs Hudson was away visiting family, but maybe Sherlock had gone out too. That might explain why he wasn't answering anyone's texts. He was probably completely absorbed in some experiment at the morgue or was out harassing someone, somewhere. Better them than him anyway, he quietly chuckled to himself.

He entered 221B, removed his coat, and hung it on the hook by the door. He took his mobile out of his coat pocket just as it beeped at him again, and decided he'd try and find Sherlock himself before replying to Lestrade. Glancing around him he couldn't see any immediate clues as to Sherlock's current location.

Although…

Sherlock's bedroom door was closed.

Sherlock's bedroom door was _never_ closed.

The man rarely ever slept in his own bedroom, he was much more likely to fall asleep on the sofa, or collapsed over the kitchen table due to sheer exhaustion. He only ever seemed to go to his own bedroom if he needed something that was stashed in there, like a disguise from his wardrobe. In all the time that John had been here he had maybe only seen the door closed a small handful times, rare enough that he noticed it now.

John started walking through their kitchen towards the bedroom door, hand outstretched to the handle when he suddenly hesitated with his hand hovering an inch off the handle.

What if there was a reason the door was closed?

He stood outside Sherlock's closed bedroom door deliberating for about 5 minutes. Sherlock never really respected his own privacy, always barging into the bathroom or John's bedroom whenever he wanted, so why shouldn't John open the door? No reason he should respect the other man's privacy when he didn't offer him the same respect in return.

He turned the handle, opened the door and braced himself for… anything really. He had no idea what to expect, and no previous experience to draw from.

At first John was immensely relieved to find that there was no horrible scene awaiting him on the other side; no disgusting experiments, no body parts, and no assassins lying in wait. Then he processed what he was seeing and he stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of the doorway to Sherlock's room.

It was so very rare to see Sherlock actually using his bedroom for its intended purpose that it was a little surprising to find him actually asleep on top of his bed.

Although that wasn't the main thing that caused John to stop in tracks.

It was what Sherlock was wearing, which could clearly be seen as his bed covers had fallen off him at some point and were tangled around one lanky pale leg.

He was lying on his stomach, his arms stretched out above him and vanishing under the pillow beneath his head. His head was turned sideways facing away from the door, the inky black curls contrasting shockingly with the crisp white pillow case.

His top half was completely bare, a vast expanse of milky white skin interrupted only by the occasional freckle along his back. His legs seemed to go on for miles as his feet almost hung off the edge of the bed, John's eyes followed the trail of the one exposed leg up, up until he was staring once again at Sherlock's surprisingly ample backside. Which was covered in a pair of white briefs sporting a rather surprising bumblebee design.

One part of John was screaming at him to turn around, leave, close the door, flee to his room and never mention this ever, ever again as long as he lives.

The other side was just confused, bewildered, and agog.

On the one hand Sherlock was a pretty unpredictable person who was known to do things outside the norm. Sleeping at 2pm wasn't even that abnormal. He could have just been really, really tired. Regardless of the fact that a tired Sherlock that succumbed to sleeping in his bed was outside of the norm for him.

It was the bee pants John didn't understand. He wasn't even sure why he was focusing on them so much. Lots of people wore novelty pants. They were fun, and Sherlock was still fairly young enough to fall into the age range of people most likely to wear novelty pants.

But this is Sherlock Holmes. Self-declared High-Functioning sociopath and Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes who hates all displays of sentimentality and 'ridiculous' human interests and pastimes. Seeing him lying there wearing those pants, which would be described as 'cute' bordering on 'adorable' by some people, was like seeing your boss wandering around starkers in the middle of Tesco.

John suddenly found himself understanding how Sherlock could refer to his brain as a computer as he was pretty sure his had found a fatal error and there was a blue screen imminent. He really, really wished he knew how to delete things from his memory like Sherlock could. He didn't know what he would do once Sherlock left his room. Could he just pretend that he'd never seen them?

The body lying on the bed suddenly stretched and started to roll over.

_What would Sherlock do if he knew John had seen him in those pants!?_, was the last thought running through John's head as he bolted from the room, closed the door behind him and sprinted up the stairs to his own bedroom.


	2. Chapter 2

John Watson was lying on his bed staring blankly at a cobweb on his ceiling. He wasn't really looking at the cobweb. All he could see was Sherlock's arse, permanently scorched into his retinas. He might be reacting slightly melodramatically, but Sherlock's not the only one who can be a drama queen.

His phone vibrates in his hand. He blinks and slowly tears his gaze down to the phone he is clenching in his hand. It continues to vibrate. Not a text then. On autopilot he answers it.

"Hello?" he says, suddenly realizing he hadn't looked at the caller ID.

"Finally, where the hell are you two? And why aren't you answering your bloody texts?"

Ah, Lestrade. He'd forgotten entirely about the texts.

"Um…" uttered John, the very picture of eloquence.

"John", said Lestrade sounding a bit concerned now "everything all right?"

"Err…" answered John.

"Right. I'm coming over." said Lestrade.

"NO!" shouted John, suddenly sitting up in bed like a coiled spring that has just been sprung.

"Err…" uttered Lestrade, the very picture of eloquence "you sure everything's all right? where's Sherlock?"

"He's... sleeping?" said John, the last word sounding more like a question.

"Sleeping?, at quarter past 2 in the afternoon?... _Sherlock?_" If John had been in a different frame of mind at that moment he might have laughed at the utter confusion in Lestrade's voice.

"Yes," said John robotically, once again picturing Sherlock's bee-pants covered behind.

"Well, all right I guess. Suppose we should be glad he's sleeping at all, eh?" chuckled Lestrade good-naturedly. "Listen, sorry to ask but could you wake him up? It's just we could really use his help on a case. It's a _locked room murder_," sing-songed Lestrade, "his favourite".

At that precise moment John heard the sounds of a violin coming from downstairs.

"He's already up" he informed Lestrade.

"Oh right good, well tell him to look at his texts. I sent him the case details and the address to the crime scene." said Lestrade. John confirmed to Lestrade that he would do that, still speaking in that weird robotic voice. "...are you sure everything is ok John?"

"Sherlock has a nice arse" replied John.

"...right" said Lestrade after a moment of awkward silence. "I… have to go. Get Sherlock here."

Lestrade hung up, and John dropped the hand holding the phone down onto the bed with a dull thud.

"Sherlock has a nice arse" he repeated to nobody in particular.

"John!" yelled Sherlock from the bottom of the stairs, "was that Lestrade on the phone?"

When no answer was forthcoming he started climbing up the stairs to John's room. Upon reaching the bedroom door he opened it without knocking, as was his style, and found John sitting up on his bed staring into space with the most peculiar expression on his face.

He knew he'd been on the phone just now, he'd heard his voice and the phone is still in his hand, but he can't quite figure out what the conversation had been about that would have caused this reaction in him.

"John?" said Sherlock, starting to become a bit concerned for his friend's mental well-being.

John heard Sherlock calling to him and snapped out of his daze to see Sherlock standing at the doorway to his bedroom. He was wearing an unfastened blue dressing gown, white t-shirt and loose grey tracksuit bottoms. There was no visible sign of the bee pants, and he found himself weirdly disappointed by this. He wondered if he was still wearing them.

Sherlock was really starting to get concerned now, and was John… staring at his crotch?

"John" he repeated, a little louder this time as he stepped further into the room.

Sherlock gulped as Johns eyes slowly travelled up his body until they reached his own. There was a look in John's eyes that he could only describe as hunger, and John further supported this by licking his lips unconsciously like his mouth was watering at the sight of a delicious steak.

Meat.

That's what Sherlock felt like as John's eyes seemed to be devouring him.

"Was…" he started to say but found his throat to be curiously dry. He coughed and started again, "was that Lestrade on the phone just now?"

Why was John just staring at him like that, not saying anything. Like his eyes were taking in every inch of him at once. He felt pinned under that gaze. He couldn't help thinking that this must be what it's like for other people when he deduces them, like their personal space was being invaded and they were being taken apart and helpless to stop it. It was _electrifying_.

John visibly shook his head and looked embarrassed as he replied "ah… yes Lestrade called. He's been trying to get a hold of you apparently but you haven't been answering your phone?"

he raised his voice at the end in question while his eyes seemed to be focusing on a point on the wall to the right of Sherlock.

"I was... occupied" That's all Sherlock said on the matter, his face betraying nothing.

"Oh?" asked John, feigning ignorance as he turned his curiously red face back towards Sherlock, "with what?"

"Nothing."

"You were occupied… with nothing?"

"That is what I said, are you developing a hearing problem?" replied Sherlock unnecessarily harshly. That's what Sherlock does when he in a situation that is beyond him. He lashes out. And he was finding this situation to be so beyond him that he doesn't even understand what the situation is exactly.

"I wasn't repeating you", glared John, "I was questioning the… illogical-ness of your statement" he spreads his hands out in front of him and shrugs his shoulders like he is displaying this so called 'illogical-ness' in front of him.

"Illogical-ness? I do not believe that is a word in any of the English dictionaries that I am aware of, not even the Urban Dictionary for that ma..."

"Don't change the subject!" yelled John a bit louder than intended. What followed was an awkward silence as Sherlock looked shocked at his outburst, and John breathed loudly.

John took a deep breath in through his nose, and out through his mouth as he forced himself to calm down from his outburst. He was feeling out of sorts since earlier which had led to his overreaction to Sherlock's usual acerbic language. He felt keyed-up, his heart pounding, and he was starting to realize that he was attracted to his flatmate, and best friend, Sherlock Holmes.

Suddenly he felt his stomach drop.

Oh God. He was attracted to Sherlock. His best friend Sherlock. It was so obvious now that he thought about it. And he was the last to find out, considering pretty much everyone else's assumptions. Well… the second from last. Sherlock didn't know. Not yet anyway.

But knowing him as John did, he was bound to find out and soon. He had to distract him while John tried to figure out how he felt about all of this.

"You should call Lestrade, sounded urgent. He mentioned something about a locked-room murder." Sherlock definitely looked interested at that last bit, thought John smugly. He could be so predictable sometimes.


	3. Chapter 3

"She didn't die here."

Sherlock was hunched over the body of a woman that was lying in the foetal position on the floor of a hidden safe room within her house, with no visible signs of what had caused her death. Eyes shut and tranquil appearance making it seem as if she were merely asleep.

Sherlock moved some of her long, straight (dyed) blonde hair away from her face and peered closely at her eyelids.

"If she didn't die here then where did she die, and how did she get here?" asked Lestrade who was standing with his back to the closed door, the rest of the Yarders having been banished outside.

The only other person in the room is John Watson, who is currently completely focused on staring anywhere other than at Sherlock's upturned arse. A task that was proving to be almost impossible if he was being truly honest with himself. At least the belstaff hid most of him from sight.

Lestrade was also not looking in Sherlock's direction. He was standing with his arms crossed over his chest, his head turned upwards peering curiously at what appeared to be chains hanging from the ceiling above Sherlock. He was trying to forget what he'd heard John say during their phone conversation earlier, although mostly just so that he could maintain some sort of professional attitude here. He'd like nothing more than to jump up and down in glee screaming "I _knew_ it, I bloody well _knew_ it!" He'd known, from that very first day that he'd met John Watson and seen the way Sherlock interacted with him (and vice versa) that something like this would come.

Sherlock rocked back on his heels, taking his mobile out of his coat pocket and starting to type without answering Lestrade.

"Sherlock," huffed out Lestrade, coming to stand closer to Sherlock and the corpse, "I've told you a million times and I'll tell you again: I call you to these crime scenes so that _you_ can help _us_, not the other way around! If you've figured something out, I need you to _tell me_."

'And then to tell me if you're shagging John, because I'm desperate to find out' thought Lestrade.

"I thought you had Anderson for that" drawled Sherlock mockingly, "or are you confirming that the man is in fact completely useless at his job?" He turned around to look at Lestrade as he said this, his face a perfect portrait of innocence. It was all in the widening of the eyes. He knows this, he did a comprehensive study on it once when he was utterly bored.

Lestrade sighed. He'd been finding himself sighing more and more, ever since the fateful day that he had met Sherlock Holmes all those years ago. He glanced back at John, and was unable to stop himself from laughing out loud as he noticed that John was blatantly ogling Sherlock's arse as he had bent over again to collect a seemingly invisible sample from the floor.

Immediately John realised he'd been caught, and Sherlock stood up and turned around to stare suspiciously at the two of them. He'd been aware that they had both been acting odd all afternoon, and he was starting to think that they were purposely trying to hide something from him. A quick glance over them did not reveal much.

Lestrade was over-worked, exhausted, frustrated (both with the case and his lack of a sex life), had skipped breakfast, and was highly amused at John.

John was a bit tired from work, but he'd only had a short shift so it wasn't as bad as usual. However he'd had a kid bite his hand today, he could see the small mark from here on the back of his hand. Other than that he was embarrassed, very easy to tell from the way his face, neck, and ears had turned a rather fetching shade of red. But what had caused him to become embarrassed?

John in the meantime is wishing nothing more than for the floor to swallow him up. He had been trying so hard to forget what he'd seen but Sherlock was not been helping matters, bending over like that and being clever. He was devastating when he was being clever. When Lestrade had started laughing he'd remembered what he had unwittingly said during the phone call earlier.

God. Lestrade is never going to let him live this down. How long had he been telling Lestrade that he was 'Not Gay'?

Well he would never believe him now.

"I'm finished here," stated Sherlock suddenly, frowning as if he was working on a puzzling experiment of his, his eyes darting between the two of them "come along John I need you to do something for me."

"Oh he'll do something for you all right" yelled Lestrade towards Sherlock's back as he headed back through the adjoining master bedroom and out into the corridor where some of the Yarders were waiting. John followed behind him, hunched over and face bright red.

* * *

John watched out of the window of his bedroom in 221B as the sun started to disappear below the horizon, leaving behind a pinkish-orange hue over the buildings of London.

Downstairs Sherlock was sitting in their living room, typing away on John's laptop. Probably snooping on his browsing history again.

John had thought that Sherlock would be moping right now. The case, showing so much promise at first, had turned out to be 'barely a two'. Sherlock had solved it within an hour of leaving the crime scene. (It would have been a lot sooner, he'd adamantly insisted, if Anderson hadn't majorly cocked up when gathering the evidence)

But Sherlock was not moping. He'd barely even complained (much) about being called on a 'two'. He seemed absolutely, perfectly, fine. John should probably be worrying more about that. A Sherlock that was neither bored nor on a case usually spelled trouble in John's immediate future.

On the other hand if Sherlock was busy with some imminent experiment then he (hopefully) wouldn't notice John's growing attraction to him, at least not for a little while yet.

What John needed was advice. He was wading perilous waters that were wholly unfamiliar to him and he was in dire need of some guidance, or at least a sympathetic ear that he could vent to.

He quickly went through a mental check-list of all of his acquaintances that he could talk to about this. He could think of one at the top of his list that knew them both well, and was already aware of John's situation. So, swallowing his pride, John picked up his mobile from the side table and dialled Lestrade's number.


	4. Chapter 4

The pub was loud and cramped, with rowdy young men spread out covering half the floor, shouting slurs at the football match on the huge widescreen television on the far wall.

John and Lestrade had managed to snag a table to themselves by a window, both were cradling pints in their hands and trying not to be affected by the awkward silence at the table, made more apparent by the vast amount of noise coming from the rest of the patrons in the small pub.

John opens his mouth and takes a breath, pauses, and closes his mouth again. Now that they are here he's not sure how, or where, to start.

"So..." says Lestrade, breaking the oppressive silence and startling John into almost completely knocking his pint over, spilling some onto the already sticky surface in the process.

"Shit, err... hang on, I'll get a napkin or something" said Lestrade, getting up and making his way towards the bar as John tried not to get any more beer on his sleeve.

Lestrade came back carrying a small pile of paper towels that the bartender had given him, and offered them to John who proceeded to mop up the spill, thankful to have something to focus on instead of having to broach the topic with Lestrade. He knew he was procrastinating but he couldn't help himself, he wasn't even sure where to start.

Lestrade clears his throat and clenches his pint in both hands, "Not that I don't appreciate our little get-togethers every now and then... but I get the feeling that there was something you wanted to talk about."

John licked his lips and shuffled from side to side in his seat, "Yeah, I mean yes... there was something I wanted to talk about."

"It's ok John, I already know" John looked up with wide eyes as Lestrade said this.

"You... you do?" Had he really been that obvious? If Lestrade had figured it out then surely Sherlock had too?

"I've...seen the way you look at Sherlock sometimes" mumbled an embarrassed Lestrade, wondering how to politely ask if the two of them were shagging already, and if not why the fuck weren't they? He'd never seen two people so perfectly matched, both obviously attracted to each other, and both seemingly oblivious to the obvious. It was enough to drive anyone insane!

"Ah Christ," cursed John. "Look, I… I'm not very good at this sort of thing. Feelings."

Lestrade snorted, "you sound like someone we both know".

John smiled at that, and chuckled lightly. "Yeah, I guess we're both shite at this."

"A real match, the pair of you" said Lestrade honestly.

The hidden message was all too clear to John who was unable to hold back a grin at Lestrade's words. "You really think so?"

"We all think so, everyone down at the Yard I mean. You didn't know what he was like before you showed up. He was a nightmare to work with."

"What, more than he is now?" chuckled John thinking Lestrade was exaggerating, he couldn't have possibly been _that _much worse.

"Definitely," replied Lestrade completely serious.

John's eyebrows raised as he looked incredulously at Lestrade, "what, seriously? He was worse than this?"

"Now you understand why everyone thinks you two are a couple right? He'd never had anyone before you, as far as we're aware anyway. Then suddenly, out of seemingly nowhere, he shows up at a crime scene with you in tow. And since then he's been... mellowed-out."

"Mellowed-out..." said John, thinking of the time that he found a human head in fridge.

"Look, just trust me, he's a _lot _better with you around."

"Hrrm," mumbled John noncommittally. Lestrade took a long drink of his beer as the two sat in thoughtful silence for a few moments. John, about whether or not all this meant that Sherlock was potentially interested in him or not. Lestrade, about whether he should have a piss now or wait until later.

"So... you two shagging, or what?" said Lestrade just as John was drinking his beer, causing him to choke as he swallowed.

"...What?!"

"I mean, it's fine if you two are I got no problem with that sort of thing... I mean that'd be pretty hypocritical of me anyway," John just stares at Lestrade, his mouth opening and closing in a near perfect impersonation of goldfish, "it's just that: if you two aren't shagging, I really think you should at least consider it."

"Consider it?"

"Yes"

"Consider… shagging Sherlock?"

"Yes"

"Right" said John, who had decided that he must have completely lost track of the conversation for it to have reached this point.

He pursed his lips and considered the foamy contents of his mug intently.

"Ok, I… admit that my… feelings for Sherlock are more than just _friendly_". He glared at Lestrade as he sniggered. "But we're not… shagging. I don't think Sherlock even does that sort of thing."

"Oh I think he'd make an exception for you."

"Greg!" said John, sounding scandalized and amused all at once.

"What?" laughed Greg good-naturedly, "it's the truth. He's mad for you. If you said you wanted him to dress in a ballerina outfit and dance the macarena… well he'd probably completely insult your intelligence, but I'm sure he'd do it nonetheless. Just to make you happy."

John tried, and mostly failed, to hold back his laughter as one of the lads from the other tables walked past and gave them incredulous looks.

"Ok, well I don't think I'll be asking that of Sherlock anytime soon."

"But you do… want him, don't you? In that way, not the macarena-dancing-ballerina way, but the relationship way?"

"Yes," said a more subdued John, "God help me but I do. I want it all. With him."

"I think you should go for it," encouraged Lestrade. He'd seen Sherlock looking at John too sometimes and he knew that John's advances would not be unwanted, but he didn't want to push John into and he had no proof to offer him that would convince him that there was no risk involved. The two of them were so close that John was probably terrified he'd try something and fracture their friendship beyond repair.

"No," John shook his head emphatically, "No, I can't do that. God, how would I even tell him? What would I do if he didn't… No. Just no."

They sat in silence for a moment, interrupted by Lestrade a few moments later who said:

"Let's get hammered?"

"Oh God yes," said John and raised his glass to his lips in exaltation.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was dozing on the sofa with the British flag cushion cuddled to his chest, and a line of drool protruding from his open mouth as his face was squashed against the arm of the sofa. He was wearing soft blue pyjamas, with a navy blue dressing gown over the top. It was getting to be quite late now, or very early depending on how you looked at it. He'd even been considering getting up and going to his bedroom for a proper sleep, but he had just been too comfortable on the sofa. It's not that he was waiting for John to come home like an anxious housewife in a vintage movie. That wasn't the case at all.

A loud bang from downstairs reverberated up the stairs and startled Sherlock awake. He sat up wide-eyed, his heart hammering in his chest before his brain caught up and deduced what was going on, and he relaxed.

That was probably John. He'd gone out earlier with Lestrade for their bi-monthly get together to get drunk and moan about their lives, and the Holmes' presence in their lives, all under the pretence of 'catching up'.

A muffled thud sounded through the closed living room door and Sherlock, very conscientiously, decided to investigate before John hurt himself (any further).

He opened the door to their flat, and stepped out into the landing. From the top of the stairs he could see John who was slumped in an ungainly heap in the middle of the stairs, clutching one of the steps with both arms like he would start rolling down if he lost his grip.

"John?" he called down to him, and was answered with a series of short grunts from the unmoving lump on the stairs.

Sherlock sighed and stomped down the stairs, crouching down next to John to peer into his face.

"John!" he repeated, this time much louder and much closer.

"Gah!" shouted John, as he sat up and flailed his limbs about uselessly. Sherlock recoiled and curled his lip in disgust at the strong scent of alcohol coming from John's breath.

John seemed to sway lightly on the step, enough for Sherlock to be concerned that he might actually start rolling down the stairs, as he squinted up at Sherlock like he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. They probably were, thought Sherlock, with his level of inebriation he's quite likely seeing at least three Sherlocks.

"Sh'lock?" slurred John, and then burped lightly.

Sherlock sighed melodramatically and placed his hands under John's armpits, hoisting him up until he was standing on the step, and staring wide-eyed at Sherlock like he'd just lifted a car single-handedly.

"Pu' me down!" squeaked John, flapping his arms about in an attempt to push Sherlock off of him.

Sherlock frowned down at John, couldn't he see that his efforts were useless?

John continued to swat at him.

"Stop that," growled Sherlock who was starting to become a bit peeved. He was only trying to help, for once, and this is the thanks he gets?

John seemed to deflate completely and he crashed against Sherlock, his arms dead weights on either side of him and his face squashed into the fabric covering Sherlock's chest, as Sherlock's arms came to rest around his shoulders.

"Comfortable are we?" asked Sherlock sarcastically. Although he had to admit to himself that having John in his arms was quite pleasant.

"Hrrm," mumbled John from within the confines of Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock chuckled, and upon feeling the deep rumbles in Sherlock's chest John tried to burrow himself further in Sherlock's arms, sighing contentedly.

Sherlock found himself not wanting to move. The weight and heat of John within his arms was reassuring and calming, and he was unwilling to let go. John was quite heavy though, and seemed to be getting heavie… ah he'd fallen asleep.

A fairly loud snore a second later confirmed it.

Now how to get him upstairs…

45 minutes later

Sherlock was sitting on the floor of their living room, his back resting against the sofa that John was snoring on top of, his face was red and he was panting like he'd just run a marathon. John was a lot heavier than he'd thought he would be. Their struggle up the stairs had been laughingly pathetic, with Sherlock heaving John's limp body up one step at a time while panting and puffing dramatically (possibly over-dramatically)every step of the way.

He tilted his head back against the seat cushion and closed his eyes, taking a moment to try and get his breath back.

"Mmm… Sherlock"

Sherlock's eyes shot open again. Was that… John? He twisted around to look at his sleeping friend but John was facing the back of the sofa so he couldn't see his face. He was probably still asleep judging by the gentle snores coming from his mostly motionless form. Was John dreaming about him?

It made sense in a way, the two of them were best friends that lived together. If John was going to dream about anyone, it would most likely be him. It hadn't sounded all that platonic howe…

"Sherlock" sighed John dreamily, putting an abrupt halt to Sherlock's brain functions.

Sherlock found his face heating up at the obvious affection in John's voice, and he also found himself wondering what John was dreaming about. Which just caused him to blush even more at some of the things his mind conjured up, like John in his military fatigues in the middle of the Afghan desert, his dog tags glinting in the scorching sun, a rifle hoisted nonchalantly across his back as he stared at Sherlock with a come-hither look…

"Mmm, no… keep them on" slurred John, confusing Sherlock who didn't know what John was referring to. Keep what on, and where? His fatigues?

John mumbled something incoherently and Sherlock unconsciously started leaning closer to his friend so that he could hear him easier.

At which point John started casually humping the cushion between his groin and the back of the sofa.

Sherlock sprang up from the floor and silently, rapidly made his way to his bedroom. He closed the door, leant back against it and pressed his hand to his chest, trying to steady his pounding heart.

Back in the living room/Inside John's dirty, dirty mind

John was having the most spectacular dream. Of course he didn't actually realise he was having a spectacular dream since, like the majority of the population when they are asleep, he was not even aware that he was dreaming.

Nonetheless it was a spectacular dream.

Inside the dream John was naked. Mostly. There was a sheet handily covering the goodies. John being naked was not what made his dream spectacular, he was not that narcissistic (unlike Sherlock, possibly).

What made it a truly spectacular dream was that, lying on the bed next to him, was Sherlock. Wearing nothing but the bee pants that John had spotted him in earlier. Unlike John, Sherlock was not covered in a sheet. He was completely on display. All for John.

"Sherlock," moaned John, overwhelmed at the sight before him.

He was lying on his back, angled slightly towards John. The dark, deep red covers under him contrasting magnificently with his porcelain white skin, one hand was caressing his own chest while the other strayed tantalisingly close to the line of his underwear. John was captivated by the sight of him. Never had he felt this way towards another human being, male or female. The only thing he wanted more than to lie here and keep watching him, was to be able to touch all that exposed skin laid out before him like a feast.

Sherlock started to pull his underwear down, when John said "No, keep them on" and his hand stopped. John wasn't sure why he wanted Sherlock to keep them on. There was something about seeing him in those pants that just appealed to John on some primal level, like Sherlock was letting John see a side of himself that no one else ever got to see and John wanted to hoard that image forever.

"John," moaned Sherlock, his deep baritone sounding even deeper with desire. He reached out with one hand towards John, and John was quick to acquiesce. He moved in towards Sherlock and wrapped their bodies as close together as he could get them. They were touching everywhere, from their heads cradled into the bend of each other's neck down to their intertwined legs and feet. He could feel the heat of Sherlock's skin against every single inch of his own. It was wonderful, like the two of them were melding into one complete being.

"Sherlock," exhaled John into the flesh against his lips, and ran his hands down Sherlock's back and across the fluttering wings.

Wait.

John jerked back and stared horrified at his lover. There were two transparent wings behind Sherlock, they were starting to beat faster and faster and creating a buzzing sound that was growing in volume every second.

"What's the matter John, don't you want to taste some of my honey?"

John awoke with a start. Well, that had been… interesting.


	6. Chapter 6

John awoke in horrible agony, and feeling very much like he was about to die of thirst. The duvet was unpleasantly sticking to his skin and his tongue was as dry as the Sahara. The most pressing issue however was the pain in his head, from which he could only assume he'd suffered some near-fatal injury and was in the process of dying a slow and excruciating death.

The curtains to his bedroom were suddenly yanked open, temporarily blinding John and exacerbating the pain in his head as a uncharacteristically high amount of London sunshine shone through.

"Oh John!" exclaimed Mrs Hudson, in a much too loud voice, a hand clasped to her chest in the universal sign of shock. "I didn't see you there dear. Are you feeling quite all right? It's not like you to be stuck in bed so late. I know it's Saturday and you don't work today and... I don't mean to pry but..."

John pulled the duvet further up and buried his face under it, drowning out Mrs Hudson's ramblings.

A little while later John could smell something delicious, and out of curiosity he peered over the top of the duvet to take a deeper sniff.

Bacon, and eggs... and was that the kettle!?

John ripped the duvet off, rolled to the edge of the mattress, and fell face-first on to the floor.

In the kitchen half of the table had been cleared of experiments and there was now a mouthwatering plate of bacon, eggs and baked beans. Mrs Hudson was just stirring the milk into a mug of tea when a very rumpled looking John staggered through the entrance to the kitchen.

"Oh John, there you are! I hope you boys don't mind that I moved a few things around, none of it looked terribly important but, well, I never know what Sherlock considers important. You looked a bit peaky this morning so I thought I'd whip you up a nice filling breakfast. Just this once mind, I'm not your housekeeper or your nanny you know."

"I know Mrs Hudson" smiled John, dropping himself into a seat and picking up the nearby fork. He lowered his head over the plate, and inhaled the delicious smells. "Thank you for this. I hadn't realised how hungry I was until just now."

"You're very welcome dear," said Mrs Hudson as she wiped the bench down with a cloth. John hoped it wasn't one Sherlock had used during an experiment.

As he was raising a forkful of beans and bacon he noticed an empty plate and mug on a tray by the sink, he looked from the tray to Mrs Hudson, and raised one brow in question.

"Oh Sherlock's been up for hours. You know how he is, he never sleeps enough. He was sitting in the living room when I came up, lost inside that head of his. I brought him some breakfast in the hopes that he'd at least eat some of it, and wonder of wonders: he ate the whole lot!"

-—

After a while of catching up Mrs Hudson left to go downstairs to her own flat. John finished off his breakfast and left the dishes by the sink as he couldn't be bothered with them right then, not the way he felt. He decided to go and veg out in front of the television for a while instead.

He sat down in his chair and turned the telly on, looking for something that wouldn't necessarily cause him to have to use his poor, tender brain. After flicking through the channels he decided the noise of the telly wasn't helping at all, and gave up, switching it off. He dropped his aching head down into the palms of his hands and shut his eyes.

Immediately he started remembering the dream from last night. The details were a bit blurry but he distinctly remembered the grande finale. Also he had this vague impression that at some point Sherlock had held him? Surely he must have imagined that part. He wished he could remember more of the last night, and in more detail.

John let out a deep sigh, rubbed his palms over his tired eyes and got up off his chair with a pained groan. A walk would help to clear his mind, and the fresh air wouldn't hurt either. He walked over to the door of their flat, pulled his jacket on, grabbed the keys off the side table and proceeded down the stairs of 221 and out the door onto the street.  
He decided to just let his feet guide him. He had no particular destination in mind and it was such a nice day for London. The sunlight that had so rudely awoken him was still shining down onto the streets with barely any clouds to cover it. There were people wandering around as far as he could see, and the noise of the city was not helping his head one bit but he was outside now and decided to just endure it.

He walked down a long street full of shops and their respective shoppers who were carrying an alarming amount of bags. As he passed a toy shop something out of the corner of his eyes caught his attention and he stopped and turned to stare. There in the shop window was a stuffed bumblebee, quite large considering their actual size. This one seemed to be size of a toddler at the very least. Before his mind could wander towards an area he was trying to avoid he quickly scurried away from the shop and veered down a quieter street that was made up of mostly domestic properties.

After around 10 minutes of wandering around aimlessly where he had started to shake off his hangover, he spotted what looked to be a children's birthday party at one of the houses up ahead. All the children were dressed up in costumes with no apparent theme judging by what he could see. He grinned as he spotted one of the children dressed up as a Princess/Iron Man, and as he wasn't looking he was momentarily winded as one of children barrelled straight into him. Straightening up he smiled down at the kid and froze as his eyes took in the antennae, and black and yellow stripes.

_Oh Bloody Hell..._

The universe was obviously having some sort of cosmic fucking joke at his expense.

John mumbled out a quick and placating apology to the kid and then practically turned tail and ran. He headed towards a park that he knew was nearby. The park was also quite full today unsurprisingly. Some people were lain in the grass dozing in the sunshine, or feasting on impromptu picnics. In the distance John could even see a footie game under way, the goal posts constructed out of the lads' abandoned shirts. Miraculously he was able to snag an empty park bench to himself, which was located under the shade of an enormous tree.

He chucked himself gratefully down on it, stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles. The jacket that he had been forced to take off earlier in deference to the heat was placed next to him. He shut his eyes and basked in the slight breeze blowing across his face.

Bzzzz...

His eyes shot open, and he stared beseechingly at the clear blue sky overhead. There was a beehive hanging off one of the lower branches of the tree that John was sitting under. Well, at least that went towards explaining why that bench had been empty.

John swatted at a bee that had flown too close for comfort. Another followed close behind and he decided to abandon his bench as a lost cause.

Shoulders slightly slumped in defeat John made the long trek back to Baker Street.

"I'm being stalked by bees, thank God I'm not allergic" he grumbled as he left the park causing an old lady to stare at him in concern.

As he approached home he spied Sherlock standing near the window of their flat. He's home. John panicked at the sight of him, but he couldn't put off seeing him forever, this morning had just been a suspiciously lucky fluke.

Bracing himself John opened the front door and made his way upstairs to 221B.


End file.
